


Call My Bluff

by LylaRivers



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Autistic Spencer Reid, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Zugzwang was badly written and i'm making it better, how dare the writers kill off a quality female character for man pain that isn't even fully explored
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-01-13 03:45:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18460796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LylaRivers/pseuds/LylaRivers
Summary: Zugzwang, but Diane's desperate last ditch attempt to ruin Maeve's life backfires, and Maeve lives (because it's kind of ridiculous that the bullet from a handgun could get all the way through two skulls).  Spencer and Maeve actually get a chance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fix it fic for s8e12, because let's face it, that was just bad writing. Maeve deserved to live 2k5ever. Featuring autistic!reid, like we all deserve. Special shout out to radiboyn's fic Strength in Numbers, which has inspired me to write for Criminal Minds after falling down the rabbit hole back in January. Additional shout outs go to beta readers SherlockedTrekkie and anon11055189 for reading this and giving me hella feedback about how to write autistic characters.
> 
> On that note, please let me know how I did on that front. I am not autistic, and I recognize that I have some inherent biases from my professional life. So... let me know- kindly, if possible.

The shot rings out and his heart stops with it. He can’t seem to move fast enough- but somehow,  _ she _ has. And in the span of seconds- with his heart in his throat, he can’t even track how many- Diane’s body has fallen on top of her. 

It’s all over. 

There’s a scream- it takes him seconds to realize it’s his own voice. Hotch is grabbing his arm, keeping him 4.2 feet from exactly where he wants to be. But improbably, there’s movement on the other side of the room. It’s all the encouragement he needs to break free and  _ run _ . 

Impossibly, Maeve has moved fast  _ enough _ . The bullet missed her by mere fractions of an inch- and his mind shies away from calculating just how many fractions it truly is. The odds that she survived are… small enough that he can’t think about them right now. 

“Hey,” she says, when he gets close enough, voice raspy from the tears streaming down her face. 

“You’re alive,” he says stupidly.  _ Oh, great, Spencer, an absurdly large vocabulary and all you can come up with is ‘you’re alive’?  _

And then she’s scrambling out from under Diane’s body, and hugging him, and nothing else matters. For once in thirty years, his mind is fully silent, simply enjoying the moment. 

***

The rest of the team gets them down the stairs, and it’s only after they’re safely out of the building that Reid registers that his arm is throbbing from where Diane shot him. Morgan tries to guide him towards the EMTs-guide both of them to the EMTs. Logic dictates that they both need to be checked out for trauma. It’s only a matter of time, after all, before current events come crashing down on their heads. 

There’s nothing logical or reasonable about his death grip on her hand.

Maeve has already nearly died at least once tonight. If he lets go or looks away for even a second… 

Morgan gives him  _ a look _ . Usually, Reid is glad that everyone on the team is good at their jobs. Together, they save lives, and hunt down monsters. But today, Morgan being good at his job means that he knows exactly what’s running through Reid’s head. 

“Hey, pretty boy. You know you both gotta get checked out before you can go home.” 

Reid whimpers, somewhere deep in the back of his throat.  _ Oh, isn’t that interesting. I don’t seem capable of making words _ . 

“Reid, the medics need to look at that arm,” Morgan insists.  “You two can stay nearby, but you need to let go.”

“Spencer?” Maeve says. “I’m fine. You need to get your arm taken care of.”

Reason- and Maeve’s voice- win out. One finger at a time, he forces his joints to loosen up, and to let go of her hand. When he finally lets go, there are faint marks where his fingers used to be. 

Maeve gives him a small smile, and kisses his cheek gently. “I’ll be right over there,” she whispers, just by his ear. 

Morgan walks her over to the nearest EMT. That’s… that’s good. She’s safe with Morgan. Morgan won’t let anything happen to her. 

He’s swarmed by well meaning medics, manhandled from person to person. The mess of noise, light and smell presses in on him, and it’s hard to breathe. Everything is too much. His arm hurts. He can’t see…

No, wait, there she is. Maeve is sitting on the edge of another ambulance, a blanket wrapped around her as another EMT shines a flashlight in her eyes. 

The swarm of activity rushes around him. The constant hum of noise makes him want to screw his eyes shut and cover his ears as tightly as possible. 

His arm has been held out away from him. He can’t cover his face. He can’t protect himself from the onslaught of input. He bites his lip as hard as he can, drumming his free fingers against his leg. It takes every ounce of willpower that he’s developed in 30 years to not rock back and forth. 

The whine starts in the back of his throat. It’s too much, too much. He just wants it to  _ stop _ …

“Sir? Sir, what are you doing?” a voice asked. Without even realizing it, he’s pulled his arm out of the EMT’s grasp. 

“Excuse us for a second,” another voice says. This voice he places- Hotch. “Spencer, I need you to look at me.”

There is nothing he wants less in this world at this moment- but it’s  _ Hotch _ . He forces his gaze upward, and meets his boss’s eyes for just a second, before they flick back downward of their own accord. 

“Spencer, what do you need?” Hotch asks quietly. His eyes flick over to Maeve-to reassure himself that she is, in fact, still alive and  _ right here _ , before he looks back at Hotch, and brings the uninjured hand over to his ears. “Your headphones? They’re in your bag,” Hotch says. He pulls out his phone, and types something. “JJ is on her way.”  

He whimpers again. “As soon as they finish with your arm, you can go home,” Hotch promises. 

JJ hurries over, his messenger bag slung over one shoulder. He’s beyond the social niceties that would dictate that he should greet her. Instead, he grabs his bag and rifles through it, pulling out his headphone case. He fumbles with the zipper, unable to get his fingers to cooperate. Hotch holds out a hand, and gratefully, Reid drops the case into his waiting hand. 

Hotch unzips the case, and hands him the headphones, all without a word. Reid jams them on his head, and fumbles around for the noise cancelling switch. His fingers scrape over it several times before finally managing to get some purchase and flip the switch. White noise fills his ears, drowning out the chaos around him. 

“ _ Ok _ ?” Hotch finger-spells at him. 

“ _ Yes _ ,” he signs back. Non-verbal communication is so much easier than trying to make words happen. 

Hotch points at the medics swarming just outside his immediate field of vision, then points to where they’re sitting. Reid grits his teeth, and signs “ _ yes _ ,” again. Soonest done, soonest over with. Then he can go home and fall apart. 

The medics come back, and take his arm with gentle, though efficient fingers. Reid keeps his eyes on Hotch, who thankfully hasn’t moved. If he can’t see them, and he can’t hear them, then he can pretend they're not there. 

After what seems like an eternity, Hotch says something he can’t hear, and nods at someone. Then, Hotch looks at him, and signs “ _ all done _ ,” part of his limited sign inventory. 

Reid follows Hotch to the SUV, unable to process everything going on around him. Someone taps his shoulder- touch gentle but firm, not too light. Maeve stands in front of him, arm extended. “ _ Are you ok? _ ” she finger-spells out. 

_ I didn’t know that you knew ASL. When did you learn ASL? _ But if she’s finger spelling- and short-handing ‘are’ and ‘you’- then the odds are good she really only knows the alphabet. He holds up the number ‘2’, then carefully spells out “ _ loud _ ”, hopeful she’ll understand the homophone. 

She smiles and nods at him, then holds up her fingers in the ‘I love you’ sign- a combination of ASL ‘i’,’l’, and ‘y’. He signs it back, not sure how to deal with the warm feeling growing from somewhere in his chest.

***

They make it back to headquarters, but before he can go inside, Hotch blocks his path, and motions to take off the headphones. “Go home.”

“But the paperwork…”

“The paperwork can wait. JJ will take you and Maeve to your apartment.” He must make some kind of face, because Hotch sighs. “Reid. You’re exhausted, and you just got shot. Maeve’s just gone through a nearly unimaginable trauma. We know for sure that the unsub is dead, so both of you get out of here, and get some rest.”

“I… okay,” Reid says, unable to combat such an argument. 

“We’ll talk in the morning,” Hotch promises. 

Reid turns towards JJ’s car, where the two women are leaning against nearby cars. “Hotch read you the riot act?” JJ asks. Reid nods, unable to make any more words go. “Maeve, I assume you’re going with him?” 

Maeve looks at him and smiles, eyes crinkling. “If he’ll have me.”

And Reid wants to jump up and protest-  _ yes! of course I do! I’ve been waiting for this day ever since we started talking!-  _ but he’s too drained, so he just forces himself to look up, and smile back, and nod, and hope she gets the message. 

“Let’s get going, then,” JJ says. 

He climbs into the backseat- hopefully less need to converse, that way. Outside the car, Maeve and JJ say a few more things to each other, before Maeve climbs into the front passenger side, and JJ gets into the driver’s seat, keys in hand. The ride to his apartment passes mostly in silence, broken only by some quiet conversation between JJ and Maeve. He’s tempted to put the headphones back on- but that would be  _ rude _ . 

At least JJ knows better than to try to involve him in the conversation. Admittedly, that first meltdown he had at work was awful for everyone involved, but now his team knows what to do, and more importantly, what  _ not _ to do. Hotch and Morgan both learned some basic sign for him- Gideon had too, but Reid shoves the thought of Gideon as far down as it will go. 

Every new team member since then has been  _ quietly _ educated. Prentiss, Rossi, and Blake have all thus far taken it in stride. No one on the team gives him a second glance if he stims, or wears his headphones on a case. 

Would Maeve be the same? She knows his diagnosis- even before he told her, based on the MRI. Based on their conversations, she doesn’t seem to care. 

Did she learn ASL fingerspelling  _ for him _ even before they met in person? 

Before he knows it, JJ has pulled up outside his apartment. “Ride’s over, kids,” she announces, louder than before.

“Thank you,” Reid manages to say. 

“Thanks for the ride, JJ,” Maeve says, far more eloquently.  Reid stumbles out of the car, and lurches towards his front door, Maeve following him. He fumbles around in his pocket for his keys, and drops them on the ground once he pulls them out of his pocket. 

Grumbling under his breath, he stoops down to grab them- only to be met by Maeve’s hand. She’s managed to move faster- yet again!- and grab the keys for him. “Here,” she says, dropping the keys into his palm. She gives him that smile again- the one that crinkles her eyes, transforming her whole face. 

“Thanks,” he mumbles, and shuffles around to open the door. He’s inexplicably relieved when he manages to get the right key in the lock, and turns it the correct direction. 

They walk into his small room. There isn’t much, despite the eight years he’s lived here.  The kitchen is mostly empty; he’s rarely here enough to cook. A couch sits in the middle of the room, behind a coffee table strewn with books. Bookshelves line the walls, interspersed with artwork and the light fixtures. 

“Are… are you hungry?” Reid asks. “There’s… there’s not a lot… of food… but we can order…” He can’t seem to make his mouth move at a normal pace. 

“That sounds lovely,” Maeve replies. “What’s good around here?”

Reid shrugs, brain stalling. He flaps his uninjured hand once, twice, then points at the drawer in his table. Thank goodness Maeve gets the message. She sits on the couch, and pulls out the drawer, to look at his binder of takeout menus. 

After a few moments of inspection, Maeve pulls out a menu for a nearby Indian restaurant that he knows was towards the front. “Is this place good?” He nods, and after a moment of hesitation, sits down next to her. “Anything particular you want?” she asks. He shrugs. “Alright. I’ll get a variety, then,” she says, and pulls out her phone. He wants to protest- he should get the food!- but he can’t even  _ think _ about calling someone on the phone right now, so he lets her do it. She calls, and with practiced ease, orders several dishes and reads out a card number. 

She hangs up the phone, and turns to look at him. “How are you doing?” she asks. 

“‘m fine,” Reid lies. 

“That’s not how it looked, earlier,” Maeve says, calling his bluff. “Spencer, don’t feel you have to lie to protect me.”

“Meltdown,” he mutters, chagrined. 

“Yeah, I thought so. Tell you what. If I can use your shower and steal some clothes, I’ll leave you alone until the food gets here so you can do what you need to, alright?

Being alone- really  _ alone- _ to pull himself back together sounds amazing right now. Reid stands up, hoping she can follow his logic. It’s far easier to show than tell. He leads her back to his bathroom, and rummages around for some clothes that could be her size.  The pants will be far too long, regardless, so he picks out the most comfortable sweats he can find. He adds to those an old academy t-shirt and a Cal-Tech hoodie. The clothes he leaves in a pile on the bed, as Maeve rummages around his bathroom. And then, he leaves, to sit on his couch, out in the main area.  

There’s a weighted throw on the couch, which he wraps around his shoulders as he curls up on the couch.  The blanket pulls down on his shoulders, forcing him to relax. It’s very hard to be tense when 15 pounds of warm blanket are pulling you back down to earth.  

He curls himself as close into a fetal position as his six foot frame will allow, and wraps the blanket around him, leaving only his head exposed.  Thus armed, he finally lets his mind work through the events of the day- from the ominous phone call at the phone booth, all the way up until now. 

He’s had a lot of stressful days since entering the B.A.U.- it’s practically written in the job description- but this has definitely been up there.  It’s not quite on the level of the three days he spent with Tobias Henkel, or the time he and Emily were stuck in the church in Colorado, but it just might be on par with the Fisher King debacle, or the days he spent home in Las Vegas, investigating Riley’s death.  

Event thus categorized, wrapped in a weighted cocoon, he can finally relax. The sound of the shower from the next room over is soothing- almost like his own personal raindrops. He closes his eyes, and lets the sounds, weight, and familiar smells lull him into a state of something like calm. 

After several minutes, the water stops. Reid lets his eyes flick open. It’ll probably take some sleep for him to reset completely, but he feels more balanced, now. 

Maeve exits his room, hair wrapped up in a towel. His heart jolts- he was entirely unprepared for the sight of Maeve wearing  _ his clothes.  _

“Any sign of the delivery person?” Maeve asks. 

“Not yet,” Reid replies. His voice is steady- thank goodness for small blessings. 

“You look like you’re doing better.”

“Sensory overload meltdowns are an over-activation of the sympathetic nervous system. Too much information sends the brain in to overdrive,” he starts to explain. Then he remembers he’s taking to a  _ geneticist _ , and realizes that yet again, he’s running his mouth. He tries to switch tactics, but the words die in his throat. 

Maeve sits on the other side of the couch. “Is it more manageable now?”

“I… yes? Maybe? Yes. At some point, sooner rather than later, I should try to sleep it off. That’s the best cure in my experience, but it’s not always possible in the field.”

“Is there anything I can do? Or things I shouldn’t do?”

“I don’t… no, there’s nothing really you can do. But light touch is bad.”

“Light touch?” Maeve asks, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

He extricates one arm from his weighted cocoon. “Like this,” he demonstrates, brushing a few fingers lightly over her arm. 

She giggles. “That feels ticklish.”

“That’s why it’s bad, right now. It’s there, but it’s  _ not _ . Firmer is better,” he explains, pressing his hand more fully against her arm. 

“How much physical contact is too much?”

“I don’t know. It depends,” he says, pulling his arm back into the blanket. 

There’s a sharp knock on the door. “Oh good, food. I’m starved,” Maeve says. She gets up and heads to the door- and hesitates. 

Reid sheds the blanket. “You know, I can get the door. Go sit down, and I can get the tip.”

Maeve’s gaze darts from the door to him, and back again. “You sure?” 

“Absolutely.” 

Reid has never been any  _ less _ sure. But he also recognizes that Maeve is probably repressing the trauma of both the last 24 hours, as well as the past year, for his benefit.  _ He’s _ the one who broke down post rescue, not her. 

Even something as simple as answering the door becomes hard when trauma gets involved. 

So Reid moves to the door, and waits for Maeve to back away, enough that she can be comfortably out of sight of the door. Then, he glances through the peephole- and breathes out a breath he hadn’t even known he was holding when he sees a young guy wearing a hat and holding a brown paper bag. 

He eases the door open. “Delivery for Reid?” the guy asks. 

“Yeah, that’s me. Thanks,” Reid says, handing the guy a few singles in exchange for the bag. Their fingers brush as the delivery boy hands the bag over, and Reid tries his best not to wince. 

“Sure thing, man. Enjoy!”

“Have a good night,” Reid says, and closes the door. Dr. Spencer Reid: 1, Autism and Social Anxiety: 0. 

He brings the food over to the couch. “Want to eat here or at the table?” 

Maeve shrugs, seemingly casually. “No preference.” 

Reid takes in the tension in her back, the way she watches the door, and the faint quaver in her voice. It doesn’t take a genius- or even a profiler- to add two and two to get four. He sets the food down on the table. 

“Hey. Are  _ you _ doing alright?” he asks. 

The tentative smile she gives him is anything but reassuring. “Yeah, I’m doing great.”

Reid lifts an eyebrow. “You’re not as good of a liar as you think you are.”

“Did you think I was lying about being hungry? Let’s eat,” Maeve says brightly. 

He’s suspicious, of course, but the social cue is obvious, even to him. She doesn’t want to talk about it- and for right now, he won’t push. Everything is too raw, too fresh. She’s just learned the identity of her stalker, watched her ex-fiancé get shot, been tortured, and nearly killed, all within 24 hours. 

After Tobias, he couldn’t talk about it for days- and that was only three days of torture, albeit intense torture. Maeve has been living in constant vigilance for a year, only to be abruptly freed after a traumatic kidnapping. She’s now lived through events that an average person can barely imagine. 

She certainly hadn’t been trained by the FBI in interrogation methods- both giving  _ and  _ receiving. 

Reid grabs two plates and an assortment of silverware from his long-neglected kitchen. Maeve has already started laying out the containers of food, peeling open lids, and unwrapping plastic wrap and foil. They sit close together- though not touching- on the couch, and dig in. 

The meal passes mostly in silence. Maeve doesn’t try to make small talk, which he’s grateful for. The lack of small talk may be as much a part of her state of mind as his, but for right now, it’s all he can do to just keep putting food methodically into his mouth. 

When they’re both full, Maeve inches closer to him on the couch. The look she gives is questioning- and despite the strain of being so close to another living, breathing person, he’s  _ itched _ to do this for 100.4 hours of talking to her, and all the other hours in between. He uncurls his legs, and wraps an arm around her shoulders. 

With something like a sigh of relief, she relaxes against his chest, laying her head flat against him. It’s hard for him to sit still right now- he still needs to reset his system- but getting this opportunity at long last is just too good to miss. 

He thought he would never get to do this. For so long, it seemed like talking on the phone, changing phone booths each week, might be as much as they ever got. 

But against impossible odds, here they are. 

She tilts her head up to smile at him. “This is… really nice,” she says softly, as if she’s read his mind. 

“Yeah.”

She tips her head to the side. “I want to kiss you. Is that ok?” 

_ That _ he has to stop to think about. He wants- he wants to pull her as close as possible, far away from how close to losing her he was. He wants to kiss her so that he can erase the horrible sensation of being forced to kiss Diane from his conscious. 

But. Even this close contact has his skin just inches from crawling. Getting even closer… 

He wants their first kiss to actually be enjoyable. 

Maeve watches his hesitation. “Hey, Spencer. It’s alright if now is a bad time,” she says gently. 

He struggles to process the words he wants. “It’s...yes, but no. Being close is… hard. I want a good memory. But after everything…” He stops, and tries to gather his thoughts together. “I want. Her to lose,” he whispers, hoping that’s enough to convey his meaning. 

“Me too. But we’re here, together, and she’s not. So I think we’ve already won.”

“I don’t like that she’s kissed me but you haven’t,” he blurts out. 

She puts her palm flat against his cheek. “We can fix that, if you want. But only if you want.”

He weighs his options. His need to  _ fix _ the wrongness of it all is far stronger than his over-sensitive nerve endings. He tilts his head in, and brings their lips together. 

The result is electrifying. She doesn’t press or push, content to let him set his comfort zone. She doesn’t try to force her tongue in between his lips, like Lila Archer had. It’s comfortable and relaxed in a way he didn’t know was possible. Eventually- too soon- he pulls away, breathless, leaving their foreheads pressed together. 

“Good?” Maeve asks. 

He opens his mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. He closes it and tries again- but still nothing. Concerned, Maeve tries to back away. 

She must think he shut down again. 

“Wow,” he whispers, voice a harsh crackle. He blinks, then frowns. That shouldn’t have sounded like that. 

Finally, Maeve smiles. “The brilliant Dr. Reid, lost for words? That must have been some kiss,” she teases. 

It’s too difficult to dignify that with a response- so he kisses her again. 

“Mmmh,” Maeve mumbles. She pulls her head back down so it rests on his chest. “We should probably sleep.”

He wraps his arms around her. “Yeah.”

“Do you need to sleep alone?”

“It would probably be better. I can take the couch…”

“Absolutely not. I am  _ not _ kicking you out of your own bed. Besides, you’re injured.”

“I’m  _ fine _ . I’ll grab my weighted blanket and sleep like a baby out here.”

“ _ No _ ,” Maeve says firmly.  

“I’m not inviting you here to make you sleep on the couch!” Reid protests. 

“Spencer,” Maeve sighs. 

“What?”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but recovering from a sensory overload is far easier surrounded by familiar things. You’re a creature of habit- and don’t try to tell me otherwise.”

He curses mentally. She’s right, but it still makes him feel awful to sleep in a bed while she sleeps on his couch. 

“Come on. I’ll be fine. I could sleep on a bed of nails and still get enough rest, knowing that I never have to worry about my stalker again,” Maeve reasons. 

He grits his teeth, but she is right about  _ everything.  _ “Alright. Let me up, so I can get some blankets.” She shifts over, and he stands to go get his extra bedding. 

From his room, he brings out two pillows, a patchwork quilt, and a sheet. Maeve is already curled up on the couch, cheek resting on the weighted throw. “Do you need this blanket back?” she asks. 

“No, I have another weighted blanket on my bed that’s full size. Actually, I have three blankets- there’s a lighter throw in my go bag.”

“It’s very calming. I see why you like them.”

“It’s very hard to hold stress in your body when there’s a huge weight pulling you down to earth,” he agrees, settling the quilt around her. She lifts her head up to put the pillow underneath. 

“Good night, Spencer.”

“Good night, Maeve,” Reid replies. He heads back into his room, and changes into sweatpants and an old t-shirt. 

He’s asleep the second his head hits the pillow.

***

An odd sound wakes him. A desperate whimper-moan fills the air. Before he really registers what he’s doing, Reid grabs his gun and goes to investigate. 

Maeve is alone in the room, twisted in blankets, half falling off the couch.  With a short mental sigh of relief, Reid flicks the safety back on, and lays the gun on a small table. He kneels down in front of the couch. 

“Maeve, hey. Wake up,” he says as soothingly as he possibly can. He gets another whimper in response. 

This isn’t going to be pretty. Steeling himself, he puts one hand on her shoulder, and shakes her gently. “Maeve, wake up,” he says again. “It’s just a dream.”

Maeve jerks bolt upright, eyes wild. She flails around desperately, searching for the villain of her dream. 

Fortunately for his own well being, Reid has years of self defense drilled into him by Hotch and Morgan. He may never kick down a door in pursuit of an unsub, or willingly insert himself into a fistfight or brawl, but he  _ can  _ restrain one small, half-awake woman. 

As gently as he can, he pins Maeve’s arms to her side. “Maeve. It’s just me,” Reid tries again. She struggles against him for a few seconds, before suddenly collapsing. 

“Spencer?” she asks weakly. 

“That’s me. You’re here, in my apartment, remember?” Reid says soothingly. If her nightmares are anything like his own were, she’s probably still half in the dream’s thrall. 

“Oh, G-d, I dreamed you were dead,” Maeve cries. “Diane  _ shot _ you.”

Reid kisses her forehead. “Well, she did shoot me, but she wasn’t a good enough aim to get more than my arm.”

Maeve clings to his neck. “You almost died.  _ I  _ almost died.”

There’s nothing that can be said to erase that. And yet… “But we’re both still here.”

Tears drip down Maeve’s face- slowly at first, then in a cascade. “We almost weren’t,” she gasps. 

She’s right- they were milliseconds from not having this. There’s no magical word to say, nothing to erase the almost-reality. 

He’s reminded forcibly of when Emily didn’t-die. Even though he knows now she’s alive and well in London, there’s no quick fix for the awful sinking feeling of knowing- for however short the time- that she was gone, gone,  _ gone _ . The curse of having an eidetic memory is being unable to vanquish the horrible drop in his stomach when JJ told-  _ lied _ to- them about the surgery. 

Words don’t work. Not for this. 

So instead, he untangles the blankets, and hugs her as tight as he can. “We almost weren’t,” he agrees, smoothing her hair down, “but we are.” They sit together on the couch, and Maeve cries and cries. Finally, when she tries to hiccup and cry, nothing more comes out. She shudders and shakes, but she seems to have cried herself out. “Sorry,” she gasps. 

“Why?” Reid asks. “You’ve just experienced an extremely traumatic event after a nerve-wracking year. To feel some kind of cathartic emotional release afterwards is perfectly normal. Add to that a near death experience… and, well, there’s nothing to apologize  _ for. _ ”

“Still sorry.”

“When I first started working for the BAU, we worked a case with a long distance serial killer, or LDSK for short. Hotch and I got taken hostage along with several civilians, and the unsub had taken both our handguns. What he  _ didn't  _ know is Hotch always keeps an extra gun on him- in this case, in an ankle holster. 

“Hotch tried to gain the unsub’s sympathy and trust- and to do that, he said a lot of awful things about me. Then, he started kicking me. I realized pretty quickly what he wanted- I snuck the gun out of his ankle-holster, and shot the unsub. It was the first time I ever killed someone- or even shot at someone. And do you know what happened after that?”

“What?” Maeve asks. 

“I was fine for about a day- until I wasn’t, and I had a meltdown at work in the bullpen. It took about a week after that before I was willing to even touch my gun again, much less actually wear it in the field. 

“My point is, traumatic events of different kinds affect people differently.” He kisses the top of her head. “This won’t be the only reaction, and you’ll probably react differently as time goes on. That’s normal.”

“Doesn’t… feel… normal,” Maeve says, hiccuping and gasping for breath with each word. 

“It never feels normal while it’s happening.”

Maeve shakes against him, shuddering with every breath. “You must think… I’m weak.” 

“You don’t always have to be strong,” Reid argues. “Anyways, strength is relative. You just survived a year-long stalker, who killed your ex-fiancé, and shot your boyfriend, after forcing him to kiss her.”

“She wanted me… to jump off a building to prove her thesis,” Maeve whispers. 

Reid rememberers Diane’s theory about spontaneous cell death in suicidal individuals, considers the risks to human life needed to actually test something like that, and abruptly reconsiders his estimation of Diane’s mental state. It would be virtually impossible to test such a subjective thesis. If she thought she could test it by  _ forcing _ someone to jump…

It’s not often he thinks this, even in his line of work: the world is a better place without Diane in it. The type of person who would be willing to  _ encourage _ death for science isn’t the type of person who should live free- much less be considered a viable PhD candidate. 

“Then the fact that you managed to resist her, even with a gun pointed at you, says that you have incredible strength,” Reid says, doing his very best to keep his voice from shaking. 

Maeve shrugs her shoulders.  “Bobby’s still dead.”

“And that is in no way your fault.”

“Bobby’s dead because of me! If I hadn’t rejected Diane’s dissertation…”

“Then the world would have a truly mad scientist on its hands who is willing to kill and encourage suicide to discover a phenomenon that doesn’t matter that much anyways. You absolutely did the right thing, and the fact that Diane couldn’t let it go and decided to ruin someone else’s life says far more about her than about you.”

Maeve stretches up to kiss his cheek. “You’re right, but that doesn’t make it easier to accept.”

Reid flashes back to choosing one of Tobias Henkel’s victims to spare. “It never does.”

“Are you alright?” Maeve asks quietly. “I’ve been encroaching on your personal space for a while now.”

“I’m fine,” Reid says, keeping his arms firmly around her. “Sleep is a bit like a hard reset button. It’s not unlike Garcia turning her computers off and back on again to fix a bug.”

“You said you didn’t like much touch.”

“I don’t enjoy  _ unexpected _ touch. There’s a difference, in that here I both am expecting and enjoy it. That’s not always true, but touch is far easier with someone I know and trust.”

“Oh,” Maeve says. “That’s… wow.”

“I don’t always understand why I have a reaction or when.” 

That effectively ends conversation for a while. Fortunately, Maeve seems to be done crying for now. By no means is this over, not permanently. 

After a long silence, Reid decides it’s time to speak up. “Maeve, you need to sleep.” 

Maeve shivers. “I don’t want to dream.”

“I can’t promise that you won’t. But you still need sleep,” Reid says. He carefully extricates himself from the couch, and holds out his hand. “Come on. My bed’s big enough for two.” 

After a long moment, Maeve takes his hand, and pulls herself up. He leads her back into his bedroom. Maeve settles herself on the bed, looking for all the world like a scared child. When he lies down next to her, she immediately curls up around him. Reid wraps his arms around her, and eventually, her breathing rate slows into sleep. 

Just when he thinks he’ll never be able to sleep this close to someone else, he drifts… off… to…

***


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next morning.

__He wakes to an alarm blaring insistently on the other side of the room. Reid moans and stumbles out of bed to turn the hideous beeping off.

Maeve raises her head up off the pillow. “What time is it?” she moans. 

“Six am.”

“ _ Why _ ?” 

“That’s what time I have to get up to get to work,” Reid explains. “I take the train in, which takes time, and I need enough time to shower and eat.” 

“Why take the train?”

“It actually gives me a lot of extra time in my day. If I’m not focused on the road, driving, then I can read or review relevant paperwork. Besides... Idon’tlikedriving,” he says, all in one final breath. 

“Driving is hard,” Maeve agrees. “It’s cultural, certainly, but if you think about it, even a hundred years ago it wasn’t so commonplace.”

“That’s actually the fault of Ford, who was trying to push his new invention,” Reid starts to explain. 

“Tell me when I’m more awake. Are you going in today?” 

“I probably should- or at least I need to check in with Hotch.”

“Would he be awake this early?”

“Hotch rarely sleeps- when he’s not at work, he’s with Jack. I know he feels guilty about Hailey’s death, and how often he’s away.”

“So call him,” Maeve says reasonably. “It’s silly to make the trip all the way to Quantico if you don’t have to.”

Ah, but that would  _ make sense _ . Reid picks up his phone, and presses Hotch’s speed dial number. The phone only rings twice before Hotch picks up. “Reid, I was just about to call you. How are you doing this morning?”

“Much better,” Reid replies. “Hotch, do you need me to come in today?”

“That’s what I was going to call to tell you. Unless there’s a case, you don’t need to come in. I’d say you have a prior commitment. Morgan can swing by with the necessary paperwork, or you can fill it out later.”

“Thank you,” Reid says with great feeling. 

“Take the time you need,” Hotch replies. Something crashes on the other line. “I’ve got to go. Jack’s trying to make eggs.”

“Good luck,” Reid offers, which gets him a chuckle. Then, he hangs up. 

“Good luck?” Maeve asks. 

“Jack’s trying to cook,” Reid explains. 

“Ah.” Maeve snuggles against him. “So, are we playing hooky today?”

“Short of a case, they don’t need me to go in. Morgan will come by later with some paperwork I need to fill out. So yes, I suppose we are playing hooky.”

Maeve drapes an arm over his chest. “Great. Can I go back to sleep now?”

“Not a morning person, Doctor Donovan?” Reid asks. 

“That was the best sleep I’ve had in at least a year, I will have you know. You, Dr. Spencer Reid, are a fantastic pillow.” 

Reid grins. “I’ve been demoted from profiler to pillow, hmm?” With Maeve practically on top of him, he has a fantastic angle- which he abuses by tickling her sides. Maeve shrieks and tries to twist off of him- but he’s hooked one leg around hers, keeping her in place. 

“How! Dare! You!” Maeve gasps. She tries to retaliate- but Reid has years of dodging Morgan on his side. He flips the two of them over and pins her hands over her head with one hand, still tickling her with the other. 

“Am I still the best pillow?” Reid asks.

“Nooooo! You would be if you’d just… keep.. still!”

The two of them wrestle for a while, Maeve trying to get the upper hand and escape the relentless assault.  After a few minutes, Maeve finally manages to twist her arm in such a way that she can escape- which she promptly uses to pull his head down for a kiss.  

“No… more… tickling,” Maeve whispers, directly in his ear.  

He raises an eyebrow.  “Who’s going to stop me?”

“I am,” Maeve retorts, and then she pulls his head down again.

This kiss is  _ nothing _ like last night’s.  It starts out sweet, but soon enough their faces are mashed together, rough and needy.  For a few seconds, Reid agonizes over the germs they’re exchanging- but it’s not long before his concerns are swept aside by the sheer wonder of having her  _ here _ .  

At some point, Maeve manages to push him over, and crawl out from where she was trapped.  She kisses a line from his mouth, along his jaw to his ear. “Still the prefered pillow,” she whispers triumphantly. Then she licks his neck.

Reid feels a shudder run through his body.  He freezes, rigid in place, eyes wide.

Maeve pauses, too.  “Spencer? Are you alright?” she asks.

His brain has stalled.  “I don’t… I’m not…” 

“Alright.  I’m going to move, and you’re going to sit up,” Maeve directs.  “When you can, we’re going to talk.” She rolls over, and pushes on his side to make him sit.  He scrubs at his neck furiously, trying to make the Bad Texture go away. 

“Spencer? Can you tell me what’s wrong? What happened?” Maeve asks.

Reid opens his mouth, fails to come up with the words, and shuts it again.  He frowns, and tries again- opens his mouth, loses the words, and closes it.  He flaps the arm further from Maeve several times, trying to process the words he needs.  Maeve sits next to him patiently, waiting for him to find the sounds he needs.

“Some textures are Bad,” Reid says finally, flapping his arm aggressively, as if to ward off the Bad Textures from touching him again.  “Wet? Damp? No, not that. Something else.” He glares around, but can’t figure out the word he’s looking for.

“Moist? Slick?” Maeve suggests, after several seconds.

Reid brightens.  “Slick! That’s it.  The sliding, wet…. Bad.  I can’t… it makes my skin crawl.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t know.”

“I could have asked, first.”

“I don’t know that I would have known,” Reid explains.  “I don’t always know ahead of time, and sometimes my tolerance changes.  Sensory overload is highly dependent on the situation and circumstances, from time to time.  There are some textures and senses, for me, that are always bad. I absolutely cannot stand the smell or feel of bananas, for example.”

“Bananas?” Maeve asks.

“If anyone has one, even from across the bullpen, I can smell it.  It’s awful,” Reid explains. “I can’t eat banana flavored candy, or even have drinks with a banana flavoring.  But some sensory issues I only have some of the time.”

“Such as?”

“Hmmmm… there are certain sounds that only affect me negatively when I’m already overwhelmed. Certain vocal styles, for instance, are mildly annoying on a regular basis, but when I’m overwhelmed, will make me want to reach through my ear canal with a rusty spoon to dig my tympanic membranes out.”

As intended, Maeve loses the worried, caught-in-the-headlights look, and laughs. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t you think?”

“You think that, but let me tell you, in the moment, there’s nothing I’d love more.”

“Is there any sensation that’s universally good?”

“Deep pressure stimulation,” Reid replies immediately. “No matter the situation, deep pressure is calming. Whether I'm capable of tolerating it from another person is a very different question.”

Maeve rests her head against his shoulder. “I’m still sorry.”

“You couldn’t have known, and it’s not clear to me that I would have known either,” Reid reasons. “I don’t exactly have a lot of experience to draw on.”

“When you say not a lot of experience…”

“None. No experience. Except for a single kiss while on a case. I  _ did _ graduate high school at age 12, and subsequently earned all of my degrees thereafter. I had no time or inclination to date.” He’s hit by a sudden wave of inadequacy. Surely Maeve has had multiple relationships- he only just found out that she had a fiancé, after all. 

She knows what she wants out of a relationship. She’s probably used to physical intimacy and sexual acts that make his skin crawl to think about. What if, after all of this… she decides that she wants  _ that _ again. What will happen if he can’t do that- if he can’t be that person?

What if he’s not enough?

“Spencer? You got quiet all of the sudden. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Reid lies, quickly. 

“That doesn’t sound like nothing to me.”

He owes her honestly, at least. “I don’t know that I can do this. Sex. Intimacy. It might be… too much.”

“Ok,” Maeve says, voice calm. “So you don’t have to.”

“But you don’t… want…”

“Oh, Spencer. I’d rather be with you.”

“Wait… really?”

“Of course, really. Who else is going to make mathematical puns, or buy the exact same book for me that I did without any kind of specific conversation beforehand?” Maeve kisses his cheek. “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather be with.”

“That’s… I’m not… I’ve never…”

“Is it really so hard to believe someone could just want to  _ be  _ with you?”

“Yes!” Reid explodes. 

They stare at each other in blank silence for several seconds. Maeve looks… upset? Heartbroken? He can’t tell. Reading people’s emotions is  _ hard _ . 

“Why do you say that?” Maeve asks. 

“Let’s be honest, here. Who would want to date someone  _ like me _ ? They say we’re incapable of love. Of having a relationship. That we shouldn’t have babies, because those children will turn out  _ different _ . Let’s face it, I’m doubly cursed, since my mom has schizophrenia. My gene pool has no redeeming qualities.”

Maeve’s face slowly morphs into something akin to horror. “That’s a crock of bullshit, and I think you know that,” she snaps. 

Reid recoils. That sounds like anger. 

“No, wait, I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you,” Maeve reassures him quickly. “I’m angry that people could make you believe such awful things. Spencer, anyone would be lucky to date you, or someone like you.” 

“Parents literally won’t give their children  _ life saving vaccines  _ because their child might develop  _ autism _ ,” Reid spits. “Because they might be like  _ me _ . Having autism is worse than  _ death. _ ”

“The people who believe that are one great big batch of idiots,” Maeve retorts. “What kind of parent honestly believes that they would rather have a dead child than one who’s neuroatypical?”

Reid shrugs, unable to come up with a satisfactory answer. 

“Spencer. I’m going to tell you what kind of parent believes that- someone who has no business being a parent.” 

He feels churlish for arguing, but he also can’t seem to stop. “That doesn’t stop them.”

“Because it takes an awful person to believe that kind of nonsense, and awful people aren’t concerned with facts. Surely you know the kind of person I’m talking about- you hunt the worst of them.” 

And he knows- he  _ knows _ that she’s right. But one person’s certainty in the right thing doesn’t hold up well against the world’s ignorance. And he’s had far too much ignorance in his time. 

He’s never been formally diagnosed. His mom distrusts psychologists, psychiatrists, and all other doctors with the fear of someone with everything to lose. He knows his dad fought to get him diagnosed- he remembers the arguments of pros and cons, when they thought he couldn’t hear. But diagnosis or no, there were things that couldn’t be hidden. A twelve year old- particularly an autistic twelve year old- in a high school has a particularly large target painted on his back. 

“Spencer. Would you rather  _ you _ didn’t exist?” Maeve asks gently, breaking into his thoughts. 

“No.”

“What about other autistic people?”

He thinks about Sammy, both parents kidnapped, largely nonverbal, but still trying to help them be found- and being far more helpful than the average witness. “No, of course not.”

“People are always going to be ignorant. That doesn’t mean you should let them win by giving in.” Whatever she’s about to say is cut off by a large yawn. 

“Not a morning person?” Reid asks, again. If he’s lucky, he can cut this uncomfortable conversation off. 

“Never. Six thirty is far too early for any human to be awake, let alone talking philosophy.”

Reid definitely does  _ not _ mention rolling out of bed when his phone goes off at 4 am for cases, or any of the other ungodly times that he’s been up at, because evil never sleeps. 

“Pass out again, then. See if I care,” Reid says, but he softens the harsh-sounding words with a kiss on her forehead. 

“You know what? I think I will. Come back here, pillow,” Maeve orders. Reid makes himself comfortable against the backboard of his bed, and Maeve snuggles against him. Within a few minutes, she’s fast asleep. 

Reid doesn’t feel remotely sleepy. Rather, he feels fidgety and unable to hold still. When he’s sure she’s asleep, he wiggles out from under her, and takes a quick shower. It’s a relief to sluice yesterday off- literally and figuratively. 

He still hasn’t lost the urge to  _ move _ , so he paces the apartment a few times, shaking and flapping his hands all the while. It doesn’t quite work, but it’s better to be up and moving. He rocks back and forth on the edge of his heels, which is closer, sensation-wise. He stands in the middle of his living room, rocking forward and back for several minutes, keeping an ear cocked for any worrisome noises coming from the bedroom. 

He has a lot to think about- and he’s always thought better with some sort of external stimulation. 

Something about Maeve specifically- or maybe just dating in general- has dredged up three decades of barbs, darts, slings and arrows about how he is. It doesn’t take much to dredge up the boiling rage he felt when the ‘vaccines cause autism’ paper first came out. The initial anger, of course, has everything to do with the horrendous nature of the scientific research- or lack thereof- behind the paper. The rage of knowing that so many would rather have a dead child than an autistic one came later, but was no less boiling. The implications of the so-called ‘anti-vaxx’ movement are  _ staggering _ , scientifically. The immunity of the world, no less, is at stake- that parents would risk the return of horrific diseases just to ostensibly prevent autism is… 

Well. Suffice to say, it speaks to a far deeper-seated hatred of autism than can be properly expressed. 

Maeve  _ is _ right- people will always be ignorant. He can come up with a dozen cases born out of ignorance off the top of his head. 

The ignorance is harder to bear when the result is widespread suffering. And there  _ will _ be suffering. Widespread, herd immunity has eradicated diseases for decades- but give them the slightest foot in the door, and there is  _ going _ to be a problem. 

He flaps his hands faster, more aggressively, to dispel the tension associated with this line of thought. 

This leads him to his own problem, in a way. Immunity, germs… touch and close contact with another human. It’s not one and the same, but he finds it all inextricably linked. Being close to people is… good in theory. Unfortunately, in practice, it’s harder. 

He knows, intellectually, that most people need touch- they crave it, as a matter of fact. To a certain extent, he agrees. Deeper, firmer touch is generally classified as good. Morgan ruffles his hair sometimes, which is tolerable. Garcia and JJ are both huggers, which is usually positive. 

But. He can’t stand casual, everyday touch. He loathes handshakes- between the eye contact required, the variability of the hand- will it be damp? sweaty?- that he’s shaking, and the wide range of shaking strength, it’s a game of physical trigger Russian Roulette he’s rather avoid if possible. 

And when people just  _ touch _ him for the sake of touching… that’s often a different trigger. Casual back-slapping, lingering touches, brushing fingers… so often, these are thoughtless on the giver’s part, but consume his energy as the receiver. 

Other people don’t actively have to think about the personal space bubble they want to maintain at all times. He  _ does _ . Every time he makes a choice to avoid a handshake, he consciously sends a message to their subconscious-  _ please, don’t touch me _ . How well the message is received is dependant on the individual person and situation. 

It's exhausting, constantly. Being around people is exhausting. It’s so hard to explain to a team of extroverts, but he can’t keep going and going and going while surrounded by people. He’s constantly  _ aware _ of the other people, in a way that they’re not aware of him. It’s draining. 

There are a few people who only minimally count as  _ people _ . His mom has never asked for more, physically, than he can give. He knows that the team will give him the space he needs. The spherical bubble he prefers can be drawn closer in, tight to his skin. No one will breach that invisible barrier without an invitation or permission, first. 

With time, he could easily see Maeve being one of those people. 

Herein lies the difference- couples are… couply. Couples tend to want cling to each other, marking the other as their own for all to see. Being with a partner seems to mean that your personal space bubble extends to include theirs, as well. 

He doesn’t know that he can  _ do _ that. 

There are some strained noises from the bedroom.  Reid goes to investigate. Maeve has twisted herself in the sheets.  He smooths her hair down. “Hey, it’s alright, he says quietly, not sure if she’s awake enough to hear, but not caring.  Between voice and touch, Maeve settles in the bed, falling back into a deeper sleep. Reid kisses her forehead, and sets the blankets around her to rights as best he can.  

Hmm.  Physical closeness seems to help.

It’s a pity he’s still too fidgety to sit in bed for however long Maeve plans to sleep.  He goes back into the main room, and grabs a few case files. He pulls a chair next to the bed, giving him the space he needs, while still being close.  Then he settles in to get some work done, keeping one hand resting in Maeve’s hair. 

***

Maeve wakes for the second time around 9. Reid has made his way through a report and a consultation by this point. “Morning,” Maeve says sleepily, eyes flickering open. 

“How did you sleep?” 

“Best sleep I’ve had in a year,” Maeve reports. “Too fidgety to stay in bed?” she asks knowingly. 

“I needed to think. I think better when I can stim- and I wouldn't make a very good pillow if I was stimming,” Reid replies. 

Maeve just smiles at him. “Is there anything for breakfast?”

“There are bagels, a few boxes of cereal, and leftover Indian.”

“Hard pass on the Indian. I’m not putting spice in my body this early.”

Reid shrugs. “Thought I’d offer.”

“Much though I appreciate it, I think I’ll stick with something a bit more blandly American.”

Reid deposits his case files and pen in their spots on his desk, and heads into the kitchen. “You know what, forget about the bagels. They could be mistaken for my chemistry dissertation,” he announces, after a glance at the bag on the counter. “I’m not sure how long they've been here. But there are Honey Nut Cheerios and granola clusters as far as cereal.”

“Do I want to know what state the milk is in?” Maeve calls. 

Reid opens the fridge, but he knows what he’ll find. “Well, believe it or not, there  _ is _ no milk. I keep half and half here for my coffee, but that’s generally it. Half and half doesn’t spoil as quickly.”

“You eat cereal. Without milk?”

“Generally, yes.”

“ _ Why?” _

“Soggy cereal is a Bad Texture.”

Maeve stares at him from the doorway. “You manage to eat granola with  _ no milk _ ?”

“Actually, I eat the granola with yogurt.”

“I think I’m officially lost on what constitutes a good texture for food. Do you  _ have _ yogurt?”

“Good and bad textures don’t always have a logic behind them, but soggy, wet and slick are bad. And yes, I have yogurt. But only Greek yogurt.”

“What state is the yogurt in?” Maeve asks suspiciously. 

Reid checks the dates on the yogurt in front. “It’s still prior to the expiration date,” he reports. “Do you want some?”

“That sounds good. The idea of dry cereal sounds  _ miserable _ to me.”

They sit in silence and eat. Reid picks at a bowl of Cheerios, not really hungry. Maeve eats granola with just a bit of yogurt, while reading the box absently. It’s quiet and comfortable. 

Words aren’t necessary. They can just be. 

Cheerios picked clean, Reid stands up and takes his bowl to the sink. He puts on rubber gloves, and scrubs the bowl by hand. “Do you use your dishwasher at  _ all _ ?” Maeve asks, watching him. 

“Mostly as a drying rack,” Reid admits. “I’m not here often, so I don’t cook a lot. Besides, I really enjoy hand washing. It’s calming- just you, the dishes, and hot water with gloves to keep away the bad textures.”

Maeve offers him her bowl and spoon. “I can dry things, at least.”

“Towels are in the middle drawer.” 

They finish the breakfast dishes in silence. As good as her word, Maeve drys the bowls thoroughly, and puts them away. Reid hangs his gloves on the side of the sink, and the two of them sit down on the couch. 

“I need… I need to go back to my apartment,” Maeve offers quietly. 

“It’s still an active crime scene, but you should be able to get clothes and whatever else you might need.”

“As much as I love your sweats, I need my clothes.” 

“I’ll need to check with Hotch, or whoever bring me paperwork. But I should be able to get you into your apartment to gather clothes, at least.”

“That works for me,” Maeve says. They sit on the couch, Maeve leaning against him, in comfortable silence. 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU GUYS THANKS FOR ALL THE COMMENTS AND KUDOS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Its the last week of the semester in my grad program and tbh your comments on this fic are keeping me going.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Morgan and Garcia, stage right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god you guys thanks for all the feedback. I’ve been BLOWN AWAY at the response this fic has gotten. I keep meaning to publish this and to keep writing but.... well, summer school is a right witch, particularly at the graduate level. So, thanks for your patience. I swear I’m working on it... just.... very.... slowly. (Side note how the HELL does Reid have THREE PHDS i can barely even finish one (1) masters)

Around 10 am, he answers the insistent rap at the door. Morgan and Garcia stand in the doorway, Morgan with folders in hand, and Garcia holding a bag that smells  _ amazing _ . 

“How are you doing now, kid?” Morgan asks as Reid lets them in. 

“A lot better than I was.” 

Morgan claps him on the shoulder. “Great. You’ve dodged your paperwork long enough, pretty boy.”

“Hey,” Reid protests mildly. He knows Morgan well enough to know that he’s joking, and that a token protest is enough. He closes the door behind them. 

Garcia sets the bag down on his coffee table. “You must be Maeve,” she announces. “Oh my god, we were so worried.”

Maeve blinks several times. “Garcia?” she asks with a frown. “You must be, since I don’t recognize you from last night.”

“It is  _ so good _ to finally meet you. Are you a hugger? I’m a hugger,” Garcia says, and follows the words with the action. Maeve gives the two of them a comical, cross-eyed look, until Garcia releases her. 

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Maeve says mildly, after she’s released. 

“Spence! I heard you got shot,  _ again _ ,” Garcia accuses, turning on him. 

“It was just a graze,” Reid protests. “The unsub wasn't good enough shot to get more than that.” It seems so impersonal to talk about Diane this way, like he would any other unsub. It doesn’t convey the pain and horror of wondering if he was going to die- of wondering if Maeve was going to die. Giving Diane the label of ‘unsub’ feels like both a victory and a loss: she’s neither the evilest villain they’ve met, nor does the label betray the crippling loss she nearly dealt them. 

It’s a good thing Diane  _ wasn’t _ a better shot- otherwise they might not be having this conversation. 

“Naughty, naughty,” Garcia admonishes him.  She gives him a hug, albeit a careful one, for her. “You almost don’t deserve the cookies I baked this morning.”

“Cookies?” Reid asks, perking up.  If he’s very lucky, and Garcia was feeling particularly worried, they just might be her speciality peanut butter chocolate chip cookies.

“Baby girl, be nice,” Morgan admonishes, waggling a finger while trying not to laugh.  

“I said  _ almost _ ,” Garcia protests.  “Reid needs to stop being shot at.  This happens far too often for my liking.”

“Getting shot isn’t exactly something people like doing, but it is part of the job,” Morgan argues.

“So says Mr. Bullet Target,” Garcia retorts.

“Who would know better, if not ‘Mr. Bullet Target’?”

Maeve raises her eyebrows at him.  “Are they always like this?” she asks under her breath.

“This is mild,” Reid whispers back.  Maeve widens her eyes.

“But down to what’s important: we’re all alive, and there are cookies,” Garcia proclaims.  

“Chocolate peanut butter, of course,” Morgan adds.

“This is a  _ far _ better breakfast than the one I just had,” Maeve says, snagging a cookie from the bag. 

“Oh no, did Reid try to feed you? We don’t trust him in the kitchen. Ever,” Garcia says. 

“I resent that statement,” Reid protests. “I will have you know that I have a PhD in chemistry, and cooking is essentially edible chemistry.” 

“Yeah, half the food in your fridge resembles a chemistry experiment,” Maeve says. 

“Somehow he burned pasta, at Rossi’s,” Morgan reports, laughing. That bastard. Everyone was sworn to secrecy on his accidental pasta mishap. 

“You’re all awful,” Reid declares. “I do manage to feed myself.”

“How much takeout do you order?” Morgan asks. 

“You, I’m never talking to again,” Reid says, pointing at Morgan. “You, however, get a pass due to the cookies.”

Garcia bounces a little in her heels. “See, Derek? All you have to do to win Reid’s affection is bake cookies.” 

“To be fair, these cookies are fantastic,” Maeve reports. 

Reid grabs two cookies, and shoves one in his mouth. “Penelope, you are amazing,” he says around a mouthful of cookies. 

“And don’t you ever forget it,” Garcia says smugly. 

“Hey, where do you want these case files?” Morgan asks.

“Over here,” Reid says, and gestures for Morgan to follow him.  

Morgan puts the case files on his desk.  “Alright, so what’s up?” he asks, keeping his voice low.

“Maeve wants to go back to her apartment,” Reid says.  He holds up his hand to stop Morgan’s immediate protest.  ”Yes, I know it’s still an active crime scene. But I should at least be able to get her in to pick up some clothes and things like that, right?  Anything that hasn’t already been entered into evidence should be good to go, right?”

“It should be, but the place is trashed,” Morgan says.  He gives Reid a look of concern. “Are you really sure she’s ready for that?”

“No, but I can’t really stop her, either,” Reid admits.  “Since she’s the resident, there’s really nothing stopping her, provided that I or someone else goes with her to let local LEOs know.”

Morgan gives him a single raised eyebrow.  “I mean, you  _ can _ just not take her.”

Reid gives him the head tilt right back.  “Can I?”

Morgan grimaces, but Reid’s made his point. “Yeah, kid, I get what you mean. Still, if you can stall for even a day…” 

“I’ll do my best,” Reid agrees. 

“How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine,” Reid says automatically. 

“Kid, don't give me that load of crap,” Morgan retorts. “Last night you had a full on meltdown, and then you had someone  _ stay over _ at your place. I don’t think anyone has  _ ever _ slept here besides you.”

“My mom stayed here after the Fisher King case!”

“First off, that doesn’t count and you know it. Even if it  _ did _ count, that was seven years ago, Reid.” Morgan folds his arms over his chest. “You literally can’t tolerate another human being in the same room as you during some meltdowns, let alone  _ sharing a bed _ . So I’ll ask again- how are you doing?”

“Really, I’m fine,  _ mother _ ,” Reid says testily. “Maeve slept on the couch so I could reset in peace, and sleep is generally as good as a hard reset.”

“I ought to whack you for making her sleep on the couch.”

“She insisted and I wasn’t really in a state to argue,” Reid defends himself. 

Morgan exhales loudly. “We’re all just worried about you, kid. Twenty-four hours ago, none of us even knew you  _ had _ a girlfriend, let alone that she was being stalked.”

Reid winces. He’s about to get the bitching out of his life. “Blake knew.”

“Excuse me?”

“Blake knew. She caught me trying to call Maeve from a phone booth on a case.”

“So… you told the newest member of the team, who you  _ barely know _ , but not the rest of your family?” Morgan asks, voice dangerously edgy. He’s keeping his voice quiet, still, but it’s not long before Garcia hears and dog-piles on. 

Reid tucks his hands under his armpits. “Look, it’s… complicated.”

“You know we  _ literally hunt stalkers _ as part of our job description, right?” Morgan demands. 

“Will you shut up and listen?” Reid demands back. “Maeve didn’t want me to get involved. Without jurisdiction or a formal report, there was nothing we could have done. I know that you all are wont to poke and pry, and I couldn’t open myself up to that when I couldn’t  _ do anything _ .”

“You never do things by halves, do you, kid?” 

“Have I ever?”

Morgan shakes his head. “May the Lord have mercy upon you if and when Garcia ever finds out you told Blake and not her. You will need every ounce of mercy to be spared.”

“If you tell her, I swear…”

Morgan smiles wickedly. “You swear… what?” he asks. “You’ll talk me to death?”

“I’ll dust off some of my best pranks that haven’t seen the light of day since college,” Reid threatens, keeping his voice bland. “You’ll never see it coming, and that  _ is _ a promise, not a threat.”

Morgan blanches. “She won't hear it from me.”

***

Morgan and Garcia stay for about an hour, before heading back to Quantico. It’s a small relief to close the door behind them. Morgan can take up space or make himself small, as needed, but Garcia is a constant fireworks show.  

Garcia means well, and Reid loves her, but it’s hard to be around her sometimes. On one level, Reid knows that the constant performance is how she copes with what they do, day in and day out. There has to be a line, and the line blurs when cases get personal, or when people they love are in danger. 

Sometimes, that line has drawn repeatedly in the sand, even as the waves crash over it. Garcia draws her line, over and over again, inch by tortured inch, by overflowing with positive, happy vibes. She wards her lair against the horrors of humanity by decorating with as many frills, lights, and cheerful figurines as she can get away with. 

Reid deals by compartmentalizing. He reads on an ever-increasing range of topics, in as many languages as he can cram into his brain. When the horror takes over, he goes somewhere else. 

Garcia’s insistence on meeting the horrors head on, dealing with them, and covering them over with fluff is both baffling and incredible. 

“Penelope is an absolute whirlwind,” Maeve says, breaking into his thoughts. “Is she like that all the time?”

“That was somewhat subdued,” Reid replies. “Half the time I hear her on the phone with Morgan, I feel like I need a shower with a steel-wool scrubber afterwards.”

“They’re not… an item… are they?”

“Garcia and Morgan? Never. They both like to flex their flirting muscles, and everyone knows that they’ll never be anything other than best friends.”

“So, the steel-wool scrubber?”

Reid snorts. “To give you a pertinent example, Morgan once called Garcia for a case update, and told her to behave, since she was on speakerphone. Garcia says back, and I quote: ‘Or what? You’ll spank me?’ The look on the police chief’s face was absolutely unforgettable, even without an eidetic memory.”

Maeve holds it together for five seconds, before bursting into laughter. “Oh, that the ground could open up.”

“Morgan took it in stride, but I definitely wished  _ I _ could be swallowed,” Reid says. 

“Second hand embarrassment?” 

“If I could get away with insisting that I didn’t know Derek, that would have been ideal.”

Maeve bites into another cookie. “So, what happens next? Did you find out about my apartment?”

“It’s still an active crime scene, and Morgan says it’s a mess,” Reid says quietly. “If you can wait another day or two…”

“I’d really rather not,” Maeve insists. She looks distinctly uncomfortable. “There are things I need to get.”

Reid sighs internally. “Then yes, it’s possible.”

He just hopes whatever she needs from home is worth the fallout likely to ensue. 

***

Reid calls them a taxi, once they’re on the street. Maeve clutches her arms around her, gaze darting up and down the street. 

There’s no way she would be able to take the train- not like this. 

They climb into the taxi, and Maeve gives the driver her address. Reid keeps his hands firmly in his lap, and tries not to think about the hundreds of people who have sat in this spot before him. When he takes the train, it’s easy to tuck himself into a corner, standing with as little of his body exposed as possible. The subway has etiquette- you don’t talk to others, you don’t make eye contact, and you generally let others carry on with their lives as much as possible in the close quarters. 

The cabbie has no such inhibitions. He and Maeve chat about the weather, the traffic, and the music on the radio. Reid bites his lip, but doesn’t engage with them. He’s going to have to interact with the police, at the scene. The likelihood of some kind of emotional fallout from this is high. 

He has to prioritize his people-ing- and small talk with the cabbie doesn’t even make the top 20. 

Reid practically flings the door of the cab open in his haste to leave. He pays the fare, and scoots out, eager to be free. Maeve follows him in closely, eyes flickering all over. 

They stop just inside the door to the complex. “Are you  _ sure _ about this?” Reid asks one last time. 

Maeve bites her lip. “Yes,” she affirms. “I have to be.”

That was  _ not _ the response he was looking for, but it will have to do. Reid leads the way up to the apartment, palming his I.D. badge as they walk. Mentally, he starts to go to  _ that  _ place- the personality he fits himself into, when he has to act as neurotypical as possible. 

The door to her apartment is closed, and a local LEO stands in front of it. “Can I help you?” he asks. 

“Hi, I’m SSA Spencer Reid, with the FBI,” Reid says, looking at the man’s nose. It gives the illusion of eye contact. “I’ve brought the resident to pick up a few personal belongings.” He displays his credentials, hoping that will be the end of that. 

The LEO shrugs. “It’s y’all’s case anyways,” he says, glancing at the shiny badge. “‘Sides, I heard y’all caught the son of a bitch who did this.” He moves to the side, and opens the door. 

“Anything we shouldn’t disturb?” Reid asks.  

“Nah,” the LEO replies. “CSI’s been out here, and if the case is basically closed…”

“We caught her, and just in time, too,” Reid says, neutrally. He lifts the police line so Maeve can duck underneath it. She lets out a little gasp as she enters the room. “I’ll wait out here,” Reid adds to Maeve. 

“A her? Really? We were told it was a stalker case.”

Internally, Reid screams. This is exactly what he hates about his job. “The unsub was female, yes. It’s rare, but it does happen.”

“I suppose anyone has the capability to be a creepy bastard, if you think about it.”

“I suppose they do,” Reid agrees.

“But then, I guess that’s why people like us have job security. There’s always going to be wackos to catch.”

Reid bites his tongue.  There are so many things that he wants to say about that statement- yes, in this society, there are people who do horrible things. Yes, as things stand, there’s always another person out there to catch. Still, that particular phrasing… it leaves a lot to be desired.  Their job is far more a factor of society than the inherent nature of human beings. 

He wrenches himself back into the moment.  Now is not the time to philosophize. “Yes, I suppose that’s true,” he says finally.  

“So, what  _ does _ drive a gal to go all creepy-stalker on another girl? Failed relationship?” the LEO asks. 

_ Hurry up _ , Reid begs Maeve internally. “Rejected PhD dissertation,” he replies aloud. 

The LEO stares at him. “All this over some lousy paper?”

“You know what they say about desperate times,” Reid says. 

“Still… all this destruction over some stupid academic nonsense,” the LEO wonders. 

“A dissertation is no laughing matter in the ivory tower,” Reid says, inextricably compelled to defend academia. He  _ does _ have three PhDs, and not for nothing. 

“No paper, no matter how high and mighty, should be grounds for all  _ this _ ,” the LEO proclaims. And try though he might want to, Reid sees no defense or response that can hold up. 

Maeve re-appears in the main room, clutching a small bag. “I’m ready to go,” she announces. 

“Have a good day,” Reid says to the LEO. The man nods, and closes the door behind them. Reid waits until they’re fully in the taxi to take Maeve’s hand. “Are you alright?” he asks her. 

Maeve winces. “That was so much worse than I expected. The place is a mess! I know you said it was still an active scene, but still! I never expected  _ that _ .” A shiver runs up her back. 

“I’m sorry,” Reid offers. Maeve squeezes his hand, but doesn’t say anything more. They finish the ride home in silence. 

***   
  


**Author's Note:**

> There's another chapter in the works that is maybe complete enough to post. LMK if you'd like more. Comments and kudos feed my dying soul.


End file.
